THE SHIPS COME IN
The accountant was preparing to take his leave. There had been an
informal little meeting held in the dingy private office of Messrs.
Samuel Weatherley & Company, at which he had presided.
"I really feel," he said, as he drew on his gloves thoughtfully,
"that I must repeat my congratulations to you, Mr. Jarvis, and to
your young coadjutor here, Mr. Chetwode. The results which I have
had the pleasure of laying before you are quite excellent. In fact,
so far as I can remember, the firm has scarcely ever had a more
prosperous half year."
"Very kind of you, I am sure," Mr. Jarvis declared, "and most
satisfactory to us. We've worked hard, of course, but that doesn't
amount to much, after all. When you've been in a business, as I have
in this one, for something like thirty-five years, the interest you
take in it is such that you can't help working. This I must say,
though," he went on, placing his hand on Arnold's shoulder, "Mr.
Chetwode is almost a newcomer here, and yet his energy has sometimes
astounded me. Most remarkable and most creditable! For the last two
months, Mr. Neville, he has scarcely slept in London for a single
night. He has been to Bristol and Cardiff and Liverpool--all over
the country, in fact--in the interests of the firm, with results
that have sometimes astonished us."
The accountant nodded approvingly. He took up the balance sheet
which they had been perusing and placed it in its envelope.
"I shall now," he said, "call upon Mr. Weatherley, and I am sure he
will be most gratified. I understand that our next meeting is to be
down here."
Mr. Jarvis beamed.
"Although I must say," he admitted, "that the responsibility has
been a great pleasure, still, we shall be heartily glad to see Mr.
Weatherley back again."
"I am sure of it," the accountant assented. "I understand that he
has made a complete recovery."
"Absolutely his own self again, sir," Mr. Jarvis declared, "and
looking better than ever."
"Odd thing, though, that loss of memory," the accountant remarked.
"I was talking to the doctor about it only the other day. He seems
to have wandered away into some sort of hiding, under the impression
that he had committed a crime, and now that he is getting better he
has absolutely forgotten all about it. He just thinks that he has
had an ordinary illness and has had to stay away from business for a
time."
"Queer thing altogether, sir," Mr. Jarvis admitted; "a queer
business, sir. However, it's over and done with, and the less said
about it, the better. We are both very much obliged to you, Mr.
Neville, for your kind offices, and I am only thankful that the
results have been so satisfactory."
Mr. Jarvis conducted his visitor to the door and returned to Arnold
with beaming face. In anticipation of the accountant's visit he was
wearing a frock-coat, which was already a shade too small for him.
He carefully divested himself of this garment, put on his linen
office-coat and turned towards his companion.
"Chetwode," he said, "I have a proposition to make. The firm shall
stand us a little dinner this evening, which we will take together.
We will go up to the west-end. You shall choose the proper place and
order everything--just the best you can think of. The firm shall
pay. Mr. Weatherley would be quite agreeable, I am sure."
Arnold forced himself to accept the suggestion with some appearance
of pleasure.
"Delighted!" he agreed. "We'll have to finish up the letters and go
through this mail first."
"Just so," Mr. Jarvis replied. "After that, we'll shut up shop. This
is quite a red-letter day, Chetwode. I knew that we'd held our own,
but I must confess that I found those figures most exhilarating. Our
little bonus, too, will be worth having."
Later on, they found their way to a restaurant in the Strand, where
Mr. Jarvis ate and drank perhaps better than he had ever done in his
life. The evening to him was one of unalloyed pleasure, and he was
genuinely disappointed when Arnold pleaded an engagement as an
excuse for not finishing up at a music-hall. About nine o'clock the
two men parted, Mr. Jarvis to spend the rest of the evening alone,
with a big cigar in his mouth and an unaccustomed feeling of levity
in his head. Arnold, after a moment's hesitation, walked slowly back
to his empty rooms.
So this was success! Without a friend in the world, without
training or any practical knowledge of life, his feet were firmly
planted upon the ladder. He had stifled all sorts of nameless
ambitions. He had set his teeth and done what appeared to be his
duty. Now it seemed to him that he had come to a pause. He drew up
his sofa to the window of his sitting-room and looked downward.
Somehow or other, the depression against which he had struggled all
the evening seemed only intensified by what he saw below. An early
autumn had stripped bare the leaves from the scanty trees; the sky
was gray and starless. Even the lights along the river front seemed
to burn with a dull and uninspiring fire. He looked around him and
his depression became an almost overmastering sensation. He hated
the sight of his empty room, the phantom thoughts that would light
upon his shoulder, the sofa upon which he was sitting alone, the
memory of the things which he might have said to Ruth in the days
when the opportunity was his. For a moment he even thought of Mr.
Jarvis at the music-hall alone, the welcoming lights, the pleasant
warmth, the music, the cheerful throngs of people. Better anything,
he told himself, than this brooding! A sudden almost reckless
impulse called him back again into the streets, only to pass away
the same moment with the vision of Ruth's pale face by his side, her
eyes alternately gazing down the lighted way and seeking his, her
fingers grasping his hand. His head sank forward into his hands. He
was alone!
He sat up suddenly with a start. The inner door of the room had
opened and was softly closed again. A familiar voice addressed him.
"I find your habits, my young friend, somewhat erratic," Sabatini
remarked. "Your supply of common necessaries, too, seems limited. I
have been driven to explore, quite fruitlessly, the whole of your
little domain, in the vain search for a match."
He pointed to the unlit cigarette between his fingers. Arnold, who
was a little dazed, rose and produced a box of matches.
"But I don't understand how it is that you are here!" he exclaimed.
"I thought that you were at Brighton. And how did you get in?"
Sabatini seated himself comfortably at the end of the sofa and
placed a cushion behind his head.
"We came up from Brighton this afternoon," he explained, puffing
contentedly at his cigarette. "I am now pronounced convalescent.
Ruth, too, could throw away her stick any moment she wanted to, only
I fancy that she thinks its use becoming."
"But," Arnold persisted, "I don't understand how you got in! You
know that I am glad to see you."
"I got in with Ruth's key, of course," Sabatini replied.
Arnold leaned against the back of the sofa.
"I had forgotten," he said. "Of course, if I had known that you had
been coming, I would have been here. The accountant brought in the
result of our last six months' work this afternoon, and Mr. Jarvis
insisted upon a little celebration. We had dinner together."
Sabatini nodded.
"So you have been successful," he remarked, thoughtfully. "You kept
your feet along the narrow way and you have done well. I am glad.
Sit down here by my side."
Arnold sat down on the end of the sofa. The curtain was pulled up as
far as it would go. Below them, the curving arc of lights stretched
away to the dim distance. Sabatini followed them with his eyes, for
a moment, as though he, too, found something inspiring in that
lighted way. Then he turned to Arnold with a queer little twinkle in
his eyes.
"By the bye," he asked, "you haven't heard--Fenella hasn't told you
of the last turn in fortune's wheel?"
"I have seen little of Mrs. Weatherley lately," Arnold murmured.
Sabatini leaned back in his place. His hollow eyes were lit now with
laughter, his mouth twitched. The marks of his illness seemed almost
to pass.
"It is delicious," he declared. "Listen. You remember that one day
when you dined with me I told you of my uncle the Cardinal?"
"The uncle from whom you borrowed money?" Arnold remarked, dryly.
"Precisely," Sabatini agreed; "I borrowed money from him! It was
only a trifle but I chose my own methods. Heavens, but it is droll!"
Sabatini began to laugh softly. His whole face now was alight with
enjoyment.
"Last month," he continued, "His Eminence died. He had fourteen
nephews, three brothers, two sisters, and no end of nieces. To whom
do you think he has left his entire fortune, my dear Arnold--three
hundred thousand pounds they say it is?"
"To you!" Arnold gasped.
"To me, indeed," Sabatini assented. "I did not even go to the
funeral. I read of his death in the newspapers and I shrugged my
shoulders. It was nothing to me. Yet those fourteen nephews were
left not so much as would buy their mourning clothes. This is the
chief sentence in the will,--'_To the only one of my relatives whose
method of seeking my favors has really appealed to me, I leave the
whole of my fortune, without partition or reserve._'--And then my
name. I was that one. Almost," Sabatini concluded, with a little
sigh, "I am sorry that he is dead. I should have liked once more to
have shaken him by the hand."
Arnold was speechless. The realization of what it all meant was
beginning to dawn upon him. Sabatini was wealthy--Ruth was a great
heiress. Her treasure ship had come in, indeed--and his was passing
him by.
"I am glad," he said slowly, "glad for your sake and for Ruth's."
Sabatini nodded.
"My shadowy means," he remarked, "have kept me in comfort. Perhaps,
even, they have been a trifle more than I have let people imagine.
Still, this is all very different. Ruth and I are going to wander
about the Riviera for a time. Afterwards, we are going to sail to
Sabatini and patch up my old castle. I have some tenants there who
certainly deserve a little consideration from me--old friends, who
would sooner live without a roof over their heads than seek a new
master. I shall grow vines again, my young friend, and make cheeses.
You shall come from the illustrious firm of Samuel Weatherley &
Company and be my most favored customer. But let me give you just a
word of advice while I am in the humor. Buy our cheeses, if you
will, but never touch our wine. Leave that for the peasants who make
it. Somehow or other, they thrive,--they even become, at times,
merry upon it,--but the Lord have mercy upon those others, not born
upon the island of Sabatini, who raise it to their lips!"
"I will leave the wine alone," Arnold promised. "But shan't I be
able to say good-bye to Ruth?"
Sabatini leaned towards him. His expression was once more grave, yet
there was the dawn of a smile upon his sensitive lips.
"You can say to her what you will," he murmured, "for she is here.
She had a fancy to look at her old room. I was there with her when
you arrived. I have a fancy now to give an order to my chauffeur. _À
bientôt!_"
Arnold rose slowly to his feet. His heart was beginning to beat
fiercely. He was looking across the room with straining eyes. It was
not possible that clothes and health could make so great a
difference as this! She was standing upon the threshold of her room.
She was coming now slowly towards him, leaning ever so slightly upon
her stick. Her cheeks were touched with pink, her eyes were lit with
so soft and wonderful a brilliance that they shone like stars. He
forgot her fashionable hat, the quiet elegance of her clothes. It
was Ruth who came towards him--Ruth, radiantly beautiful,
transformed--yet Ruth! He held out his arms and with a little sob
she glided into them.
Side by side they took their accustomed places upon the horse-hair
sofa. Her head sank upon his shoulder, her hands clasped his, her
eyes were wet with tears. A siren blew from the river. A little tug,
with two barges lashed alongside, was coming valiantly along. The
dark coil of water seemed suddenly agleam with quivering lights.
"Our ships," she whispered, "together, dear!"
THE END
* * * * *
E. Phillips Oppenheim's Novels
Mr. Oppenheim never fails to entertain us.--_Boston Transcript_.
The author has acquired an admirable technique of the sort demanded
by the novel of intrigue and mystery.--_The Dial_, Chicago.
Mr. Oppenheim is a past master of the art of constructing ingenious
plots and weaving them around attractive characters.--_London
Morning Post_.
By all odds the most successful among the writers of that class of
fiction which, for want of a better term, may be called "mystery
stories."--_Ainslee's Magazine_.
Readers of Mr. Oppenheim's novels may always count on a story of
absorbing interest, turning on a complicated plot, worked out with
dexterous craftsmanship.--_Literary Digest_, New York.
We do not stop to inquire into the measure of his art, any more than
we inquire into that of Alexandre Dumas, we only realize that here
is a benefactor of tired men and women seeking relaxation.--_The
Independent_, New York.
* * * * *
Havoc
A brilliant and engrossing story of love, mystery, and international
intrigue.
Peter Ruff and the Double Four
Deals with the exploits of a shrewd detective and a mysterious
secret society.
The Moving Finger.
A mystifying story dealing with unexpected results of a wealthy
M.P.'s experiment with a poor young man.
Berenice.
Oppenheim in a new vein--the story of the love of a novelist of high
ideals for an actress.
The Lost Ambassador.
A straightforward mystery tale of Paris and London, in which a
rascally maître d'hotel plays an important part.
A Daughter of the Marionis.
A melodramatic romance of Palermo and England, dealing with a
rejected Italian lover's attempted revenge.
Mystery of Mr. Bernard Brown.
A murder-mystery story rich in sensational incidents.
The Illustrious Prince.
A narrative of mystery and Japanese political intrigue.
Jeanne of the Marshes.
Strange doings at an English house party are here set forth.
The Governors.
A romance of the intrigues of American finance.
The Missioner.
Strongly depicts the love of an earnest missioner and a worldly
heroine.
The Long Arm of Mannister.
A distinctly different story that deals with a wronged man's
ingenious revenge.
As a Man Lives.
Discloses the mystery surrounding the fair occupant of a yellow
house.
The Avenger.
Unravels an intricate tangle of political intrigue and private
revenge.
The Great Secret.
Unfolds a stupendous international conspiracy.
A Lost Leader.
A realistic romance woven around a striking personality.
A Maker of History.
"Explains" the Russian Baltic fleet's attack on the North Sea
fishing fleet.
Enoch Strone: A Master of Men.
The story of a self-made man who made a foolish early marriage.
The Malefactor.
An amazing story of a man who suffered imprisonment for a crime he
did not commit.
The Traitors.
A capital romance of love, adventure and Russian intrigue.
A Prince of Sinners.
An engrossing story of English social and political life.
A Millionaire of Yesterday.
A gripping story of a wealthy West African miner.
The Man and His Kingdom.
A dramatic tale of adventure in South America.
Anna the Adventuress.
A surprising tale of a bold deception.
Mysterious Mr. Sabin.
An ingenious story of a world-startling international intrigue.
The Yellow Crayon.
Containing the exciting experiences of Mr. Sabin with a powerful
secret society.
The Betrayal.
A thrilling story of treachery in high diplomatic circles.
A Sleeping Memory.
A remarkable story of an unhappy girl who was deprived of her
memory.
The Master Mummer.
The strange romance of beautiful Isobel de Sorrens.
* * * * *
Little, Brown & Co., _Publishers_, Boston